


is that my shirt?

by tsunderestorm



Category: Persona 5
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-07
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-10-05 23:36:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17334491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsunderestorm/pseuds/tsunderestorm
Summary: Akechi can shake Akira to his core like no one else can.





	is that my shirt?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bickz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bickz/gifts).



> Written for a prompt request game on [twitter](https://twitter.com/tsunderestorm/status/1077585159950602241), for the prompt " _Is that my shirt?_ ".
> 
> Akechi is terrifying because he's the type of person who can say shit like this and be completely unruffled by it while whoever he says it to is just like. help

Goro looked beautiful in the bright morning light streaming through Leblanc’s front windows, lit up by the sun like an angel of the dawn. Akira hadn’t expected to see him here, not when he hadn’t seen him at the station in weeks, not when he’d been uncharacteristically absent from his interviews. The Goro Akechi eating breakfast at the counter was not the public’s beloved detective prince, was nothing but a lonely boy with hair the color of honey and eyes like freshly brewed coffee and a smile Akira thought about way more than he should.

“What are you doing here?” Akira asked, collecting his thoughts and tying on his apron as he settled in behind the counter. Sojiro shot him an apologetic look from his seat in a booth beside one of his more talkative regulars and Akira nodded. _I know, boss._ He was glad for the solitude, glad to share even just a tiny moment with Akechi even though he knew he shouldn’t, even though he knew he was breaking one of the group’s cardinal rules by not making his decision to...well, do whatever it was he was doing with Goro Akechi a secret from them.

“You ask me that every time, Akira. So silly! I’ve told you, I greatly enjoy the coffee here.” _Akira._ Every time Goro talked to him it was that way; no family name and no honorifics. Unexpectedly informal, startlingly personal - lips that denounced his friends’ actions wrapping so elegantly around the syllables of his name. (The way they wrapped around something else, too.)

That kind of thinking was dangerous. Goro Akechi was the last person who should be here right now (or ever) but he knew that, didn’t he? He knew it every time he drank cup after cup of coffee so pale it wasn’t even coffee anymore, sweet with cream and sugar as it was, knew it when Goro showed up far past close and pushed him upstairs and onto his bed, climbing on top of him with a take-charge confidence that surprised him.

Shaking his head to clear it, he turned to grab an empty cup a previous patron had left on the counter but stopped dead when something caught his eye - the shirt under Goro’s suit jacket, tucked almost hidden beneath perfectly tailored lines and shining buttons...it was familiar. **Extremely** familiar.

“Wait...is that my shirt?” Akira asked, scrutinizing the presence of what was unmistakably his favorite baseball tee. There was the black collar with the curry stain just below it, a remnant of a late-night snack that he’d never been able to scrub out. There was the bit where the printing of the number had began to wear off after one too many hot water washings...yeah, that was _definitely_ his shirt. 

On Goro Akechi’s body. 

Goro winked at him, poking the breakfast scone around his plate with a fork, the ringing noises of metal on ceramic like a warning bell in Akira’s mind. 

_(Stop it. Don’t lose your cool just because he’s wearing your shirt and eating breakfast in your cafe and looking a lot like he wants to devour you right here and now and it’s been a while since his mouth touched your neck and._ Fuck _.)_

_“_ That’s my shirt.” 

“Very observant, Akira!” Goro clapped his hands together, indulgent and condescending all at once. 

“Why?”

“I snatched it the last time I stayed the night here. If I’m being completely honest -” Akechi leaned in close, conspiratorial as his voice lowered to a whisper. “It turns me on to feel anything of yours against my bare skin. To have you, even if it’s just a shirt, holding me so tightly. You’re good at that one, aren’t you, Akira of the attic?”

He leaned back afterwards with a casual ease that shook him to his core, bringing the steaming mug of coffee to his lips and taking a long, indulgent sip. Akira imagined it: Akechi, hard in his palm, damp against his briefs, Akechi concealing so much beneath his perfectly pressed khakis. 

His expression said _upstairs - now,_ and Akira found himself contemplating how much noise an early Friday morning shop really could cover up. 


End file.
